Chapter 10
MAKSIM
So what if I’ve been stalking her?
Sue me.
No, really. Drag my ass into court. I’d love to see the look on some poor bastard’s face when the charges hit their desk. Pakhan of the Antonov Bratva arrested for tailing one nosy American tutor.
Interpol would wet themselves. They’d throw a fucking gala, pop vintage champagne, hand out little gold medals shaped like my initials for finally taking me down. Hell, they’d probably name a whole task force after the incident. “Operation Ivy” or something equally stupid.
And maybe, just for fun, I’d show up, stand in the back in a pressed suit and a half-smile, just to watch the room go still when I finally made my presence known that I’d miraculously gotten let out on a technicality.
Their faces would pale, their expressions would drop, and soon, everyone would be on their hands and knees begging for forgiveness.
Because let’s be honest. No one is stupid enough to touch me. Not while I hold half of Moscow by the throat. And certainly not while the other half is still scrambling to kiss the ring every chance they get.
But her? She’s another story.
There is something about the way Ivy pokes and prods at things she should’ve let go of a long time ago that gets under my skin.
She’d come to Moscow to teach English. That’s what her file said.
Nothing had been marked strange when Matvey pulled her records afterward to check what her affiliations were the day I brought her and Yulia back to the Sorokin estate.
A glorified babysitter, that’s what he’d called her when handing me her file. That’s all she should’ve been.
Safe.
Harmless.
Completely forgettable.
Which is what makes it so fucking baffling that I just caught her creeping around a crime scene I’ve been in the middle of getting cleaned up for the past two days.
So yeah, I’d followed her.
Because harmless people don’t break into buildings where my men have left bloodstains in the mortar. And they sure as hell don’t make me lose focus in the middle of a fucking cleanup operation.
I wasn’t supposed to think about her. She was a convenient excuse to keep Yulia busy while Sergei and I struck more business deals and expanded our portfolio. Yet every time her name crept back into my thoughts, uninvited and unprovoked, I caught myself wondering things I had no business wondering.
Where is she right now? What is she doing? And my personal favorite, Why the fuck do I care?
I don’t have a good answer for that. Which is exactly why I didn’t hesitate when I saw her on the security feed this morning getting out of one of Sergei’s cars with her coat pulled tight around her and that stubborn set in her jaw that I knew meant she was going off to do something stupid.
And now here we are, back in the belly of a mess she had no business sticking her nose into, her pulse rabbiting beneath that delicate skin where my thumb is pressed to as I corner her against the wall.
Her throat bobs visibly when she swallows. “I told you… I just came back for my phone.”
“Careful,” I warn. “You’re in enough trouble. Lying to me isn’t an offense you want to add to your list.”
She twists again, panic flickering across her face. The fingers on her free hand twitch toward her bag again like she’s still thinking she can try something and outrun me. It’s cute, in a suicidal kind of way.
“If you let me go now, I won’t tell Sergei you’re holding me hostage. I won’t even tell him you’re stalking me because you clearly are, by the way, if you found me this easily,” she blurts out.
I pause, then let out a quiet snort. “Why would that matter?”
She blinks at me, then frowns. “Because… because you work for him? He’s already pissed enough that his daughter got involved in… whatever it is you two are involved in.”
Christ.
This girl…
To suggest that Sergei Sorokin, of all people, would ever have the balls to call the shots like that… is laughable. He is a smart man, don’t get me wrong, but he’d never have it in him to get his hands dirty. Not the way I have.
I shake my head slowly, more amused than I should be. “Sweetheart, Sergei works for me.”
She freezes. “What?”
I don’t give her a second to recalibrate.
I take that stunned silence and I use it, grabbing her elbow and steering her out the back door and down the alleyway, toward the black car parked just behind the dumpsters.
She resists but it’s weak. Her brain is still trying to catch up to what I said, still tripping over the implications of what I’ve laid out for her to see.
“Wait—no,” she stammers, digging her heels into the pavement like it’ll make any difference.
“You’ve had your fun snooping and playing detective, but I think you’re done for the day. In any case, what was your endgame, exactly? Post a blog about it? Start a YouTube channel and expose me and my Bratva?”
“Get your hands off me!” she snaps, trying to wrench herself free.
I don’t let go.
“You think I haven’t seen your phone logs? My sledopyt pulled them the same day I delivered you back to Sergei,” I say.
Her steps falter. “What?”
“You called someone that day. A Doriene Kaisheva,” I continue. “Let me guess—mentor? Boss? A handler? You came out here to record what you could and send it back to her. Proof you got tangled up in something dangerous.”
She gasps. It’s a small sound, but it gives her away completely.
I chuckle under my breath, amused in spite of myself. “Yes. I thought so.”
She whips her head toward me, cheeks flushed, voice trembling with conviction. “I didn’t record anything. I swear!”
“Sure,” I deadpan, guiding her toward the waiting black car. When we reach the rear door, I open it. “In.”
She glares at me. “Go to hell.”
I sigh. “Fine. Be stubborn.”
I pick her up by the waist and toss her into the back seat like she’s a sack of flour that screams and shut the door before she can kick me, sealing her in and then circling to the front.
From the back seat, she lets out a furious screech and yanks on the door handle a few times.
When it doesn’t budge, she kicks it and sits upright, red-faced and sputtering.
As I’m getting into the driver’s seat, she yells, “You’re insane! You can’t just throw people into the back of a car and then drive off! That’s kidnapping! I don’t belong to you! Let me out!”
I turn my head slowly, meeting her eyes in the rearview. “Well, it’s either that or I shoot you. Which option would you like to choose?”
That gets her to shut up instantly. The ride back is blissfully quiet, aside from her breathing in angry little exhales like she’s holding back a tirade with every breath.
The city is a blur through the windows. Ivy watches the road signs, landmarks, cars passing us by with a careful eye, concentrating so hard I can practically see the mental map she’s building.
She’s sharp, I’ll give her that. Unfortunately, being clever doesn’t mean you’re immune to consequences. She might memorize every turn between here and my estate, but none of it will matter. Even if she were to escape, where would she run?
There’s nowhere in this city that I don’t already have my hands wrapped around. Moscow doesn’t breathe unless I let it.
As we’re pulling through the gates of my estate, she finally speaks. “When I get out of here, I’m going to the U.S. Embassy. Interpol. Any politician I can get on the phone. Whoever the hell will listen to me about all of this. You’re done.”
I lean back in my seat, smiling faintly. “I don’t fear Interpol, Ivy. I have their lunch schedules. And I also don’t avoid politicians. They send me Christmas cards every year like clockwork. You think you’re holding a grenade, but sweetheart, you’re standing in the blast radius.”
Her face pales.
I add, “I’m not telling you this to scare you. Though if it keeps you out of my business, good. I’m telling you so you understand that this isn’t a game you’re going to win. You walked into something you can’t undo. So whatever choice you make after today, make sure you keep that in mind.”
Her throat works around the words she doesn’t have the guts to say. Finally, she breathes, “You’re insane.”
“I’m pragmatic.”
The car slows and then rolls to a stop, the tires crunching over the gravel of the circular drive.
I throw it into park harder than necessary, the jolt making the frame shudder.
I don’t move to get out yet, forcing us to sit in the heavy silence.
The only sound is the steady rush of heat blowing from the vents, wrapping us both in air that feels almost suffocating.
Her voice breaks the stillness, a whisper that almost vanishes into the hum of the heater. “Let me go.”
I turn my head slowly, savoring the moment she’s managed to gather the courage to beg. My arm hooks over the back of the seat as I face her fully. “No.”
That single word sets her spine stiff, the fire sparking back in her eyes like I knew it would. She lifts her chin at me. “So, what, are you going to kill me?”
My brow arches. I can’t help the faint trace of amusement curling at the edge of my mouth. “Why would I do that?”
Confusion flickers across her face, knocking her off balance. She expects monsters to be predictable, sharp teeth with no morals while they rip through their victims. She doesn’t understand that the most dangerous predators don’t always need to bite.
“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to take you back to Sergei’s estate after I tell him what you’ve been up to.
If he doesn’t decide to fire you and ship you back to whatever state you came from, then I’m sure you’ll go back to teaching Yulia vocabulary words and pretending this whole week never happened. ”
Her hands curl into fists in her lap, the nails digging into her palms hard enough that they pale.
“It would be wise for you to pretend none of this ever happened,” I add, softening my voice, letting it slip into something that could almost pass for kind if I were a better man. “Very wise.”
Her jaw tightens.
“And if I don’t?” she spits, stubborn and defiant to her last dying breath, it seems.
I lean closer, letting the space between us vanish inch by inch. The car is already small, but I make it smaller, make the air heavier, until she presses herself back into the seat as if the leather could swallow her whole.
I keep my voice low, intimate enough that the words graze her like a lover’s touch. “Then I’ll remind you why no one says no to me twice.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, the sound loud in the silence. “You can’t do that.”
I give her a razor-sharp smile. “Of course I can. I’m the Antonov Bratva’s Pakhan. I can do whatever the hell I want.”